The Blue Vette
by 200YRS2L8
Summary: It started off as an early morning drive along the Pacific Coast Highway, but turned into an unexpected adventure.
1. Chapter 1

A companion story to "The Black Vette" - you might want to read that one first, if you haven't already.

This is an original work of fiction, that borrows characters and lyrics created by others. I do not own, and make no claim at all, to any of the characters or song snippets in this story. I promise to be nice to them, and to leave them in good shape for the next aspiring author who comes along.

This story is dedicated to "Storyfan101".

**THE BLUE VETTE**

Chapter 1

The old blue Corvette Stingray convertible sat in the driveway, between the two arguing men.

"No - I take that back!" snapped the younger man. As an ex-pro race driver, Mark McCormick figured he was more than qualified to express an opinion here. "It's _NOT _a shame! In fact it's worse than that - it's a _WASTE_!"

Judge Milton Hardcastle lifted his chin, pointed an accusing finger at the younger man, and replied "Waste? WASTE? You wanna know what's a real waste around here?"

McCormick smiled and rolled his eyes, "Here it comes again." he thought to himself.

"What's a real waste around here is all the time YOU spend NOT mowing the lawn, NOT trimming the hedge, NOT weeding the flower beds, NOT cleaning the-"

"That's right," Mark broke in, "Change the subject! Who better at the art of misdirection than someone who spent decades of his life in a courtroom?" He smiled inwardly, that ought to get old 'Hardcase' wound up.

But the retired judge seemed to shrug it off like he always did, and shot back "And I suppose you accomplished more good behind bars at San Quentin, than I did behind the bench?"

"I think all those years behind the bench-" McCormick made a hammering motion by his right ear, "Maybe all those loud gavel-bangs so close to your head, must have affected your brain-"

"There's NOTHING wrong with my mind, I'm just as sharp as ever!"

"Oh yeah? Well I can't think of any other explanation-"

"Since when do I need to explain myself to YOU?-"

"-For letting what you have just sit here and GRACEFULLY GROW OLD!"

The judge's mouth opened briefly, but no sound came out. Mark struck while the iron was hot, "Daytona blue, 1964 Corvette Stingray convertible..." his voice softened a little, and he stepped back to admire the car, "327 V8, 4-speed, man - when I was a kid, this was one of the baddest cars on the road, EVERYBODY wanted one. Forget about Camaro, Mustang, Jaguar... only Ferrari and Porsche were even worthy of mention in the same breath."

"Yeah, I bought it brand new in the fall of '64..." the Judge smiled at the fond memory.

"Hey, back then were YOU the baddest thing behind the bench yet? Or were you still the baddest thing on two wheels in '64?" First a little 'velvet glove', Mark thought to himself...

"Nah, my days as a motorcycle officer were behind me by then..."

"Ah, already starting to slow down, were you?" Followed by some 'iron fist'! Mark could not help but smile.

"What! Look you don't know the first thing about me back then-"

"Well, I sure know what I see now." Hardcastle opened his mouth but McCormick pressed on, "I see a retired old fuddy-duddy of an ex-judge, who keeps this magnificent classic around to remind himself what a hotrod HE was back in the day." Hardcastle lifted an accusing finger but McCormick would not let him get a word in, "I see somebody who USED to be a rebel, who USED to get up every morning and grab the world by the tail, but is now so buttoned down and proper and all _'Sworn To Uphold And Defend The Law'_, that this magnificent machine is really nothing more than a memory, a bookmark in the old photo album, a shiny trinket that I'll bet hasn't broken the double nickel in years."

McCormick paused to catch his breath. Hardcastle still had his mouth open and finger poised, seemingly about to tell Mark off in spades. But inexplicably, no words came.

Mark pressed on, hardly believing his good luck. "In fact, you have a lot in common with this car," he said in an admiring tone, "You've both been around the block a few times. On the outside you look pretty good for your ages, no broken parts, no visible rust, pass your safety inspections easy..." The judge seemed distracted by the car, "But what about under the hood, deep down, inside the engine? How much carbon and sludge has built up from all that perfectly LEGAL cruising around? Hmmm?"

Hardcastle stared daggers at the younger man, but still seemed somehow unable to find just the right words to tear into McCormick with. So Mark jumped on the chance that might not come again for a long time. "You know, this old blue Vette just sitting here growing old is not JUST a shame and a waste..." he looked Hardcastle straight in the eye, savoring the moment with an almost evil grin, "It's downright _CRIMINAL_!"

McCormick turned and left.

Hardcastle stood in the driveway, eyes wide, mouth open, one finger still extended. He gazed silently back and forth between the car, and the spot where Mark had stood. He lowered his hand, but it was a long time before he slowly turned and went back inside.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The garage door opened slowly, and very quietly. The Stingray backed out, dark and silent, no lights, no engine, just a black shadow pushing on the front bumper. When it cleared the garage, the shadow hurried to the driver's side and turned the wheel. The car coasted to a stop side-on to the garage, in the middle of the driveway, and the shadow straightened the wheel. It took a long careful look around at the house, then peered down the driveway past the gatehouse, to the Pacific Coast Highway beyond. It glanced at a wristwatch, then up at the sky which was just beginning to lighten in the East.

The shadow moved to the back of the car and began to push again. After a few moments and a bit of momentum it returned to the driver's side and guided the car silently down the driveway. The shadow was especially careful and quiet passing the gatehouse, and it studied the windows closely for signs of life as it pushed the car past.

When the shadow and the car reached the end of the driveway, it turned the wheel, jumped in, started the engine, and idled away down the highway as quietly as possible.

The black wrought-iron gates closed behind...


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

It was still dark enough that Milt had to turn on the headlights as he gently worked the blue Vette up through the gears, accelerating Eastward along the PCH. He kept the revs down, so as not to disturb the sleeping world around him. And he instinctively backed off the gas at 54 mph.

He glanced down at the speedometer and frowned. "Double nickel? Hmph..." was all he muttered to himself, then he shook his head, pointedly ignored the gauge and tried to enjoy the cool early morning sea breeze wafting past at just under the posted limit.

As he approached Will Rogers Park near the outskirts of Santa Monica, he thought he heard a sound from the narrow stretch of beach on his right. It was not yet light enough to make out any more than the occasional white line of surf breaking gently against the sand. He slowed the car, and heard it again, and again a moment later. He'd heard waves on the beach a million times before, but this was somehow different, something more...

He slowed the car further, and whispered words seemed to carry on the breaking waves:

_wwwyyy..._

_wwwaaayyy..._

_wwwaaayyysss..._

_wwwaaayysssttt..._

_waaaste..... waaste..... waste....._

The blue Vette was nearly at walking speed now, and the whispered voice on the waves sounded for all the world like McCormick's _"Waste... Waste... Waste of a great car..."_

The judge looked around angrily, rubbed one ear, shook his head, and growled a disbelieving "Bah!-". He chirped the tires as he accelerated away, and angrily twisted the radio knob to drown out the surf. Drown out McCormick's voice. Drown out that stupid argument earlier. It was nothing, just needling him like always, no different from a hundred other arguments they had. No different! No different!

He unclenched his jaw and managed to relax again as he drove through Santa Monica, enjoying the gradually lightening sky, and humming along to the music. The DJ on the radio announced a long set of songs, starting off with that old Fats Domino favourite:

_You made me cry when you said goodbye_

_Ain't that a shame?_

_My tears fell like rain_

_Ain't that a shame?..._

The song took him back to the late '50's, when he was still a cop on the beat...

The song continued:

_You broke my heart when you said we'll part_

_Ain't that a shame- Ain't that a shame- Ain't that a shame- Ain't that a shame- Ain't that a shame-_

Milt frowned at the radio, and the skipping music coming from it. "Terrible thing to do to a great song..." he muttered and shook his head. It continued skipping:

_Ain't that a shame- Ain't that a shame- Ain't that a shame-_

"It's a shame you let ol' Fats go on like that! Do something, will ya?" he exclaimed at the radio, and the AWOL DJ.

_Ain't that a shame- Ain't that a shame- ...-shame... -shame..._

Somehow Mark's voice seemed to join Fats's coming from the radio, and the pair were drawing him back to that stupid argument again, in maddening harmony.

_Shame-... Shame-... Shame and a waste..._

He angrily stabbed a radio button to switch to another station, anything to get away from that annoying skipping. And get away from McCormick's nagging - even out here alone he couldn't get that stupid, pointless argument off his mind. The DJ announced a brand new hit song by someone Milt had never heard of, and the music started:

_One foot on the brake_

_And one on the gas..._

_There's too much traffic_

_I can't pass_

Happily he was able to tune out the modern rock noise, and start to relax again, as he made his way along the Santa Monica freeway. But a moment later he stared at the radio in shock, as the high pitched voice belted out:

_I - CAN'T - DRIVE - - FIFTY FIVE!_

Milt glanced down at the spedo: 54 mph! He growled through clenched teeth and snapped the radio off nearly hard enough to break the knob. He clenched and unclenched his hands several times on the steering wheel. He looked down again angrily at the spedo and growled "double nickel..." His right hand moved back and forth between the wheel and shifter, and he clenched and unclenched a few more times. He muttered "cant drive 55..." through gritted teeth, as he glanced quickly all around.

He rubbed his chin, glanced around once more, then stomped the pedal to the floor.

The big V8 coughed and sputtered and lurched, and the car actually began to slow. Milt backed off the gas and it settled down, and in a moment was back up to 54. "Carbon buildup...", Milt thought, then caught himself, but couldn't stop McCormick's voice completing the phrase in his head "From all that _LEGAL _cruising around". Growling, he slammed the shifter into third, blipped the accelerator a little harder than necessary, and let the revs gradually climb. The big engine sounded horrible, and it shook and surged but Milt kept at it, and sure enough under a light load at high revs, it began to smooth out. He didn't want to think about what was coming out the tailpipe just then.

As the old Vette cleared its lungs, it gradually found its voice too. The engine's stumbling and mumbling transformed into the classic V8 roar as he held third gear near redline. He backed off a little, then stomped the gas, and only had to repeat it a few times to clear out the last of the gunk. Back to fourth gear, and it felt like a whole new car.

The exit for the San Diego Freeway came up quickly. Milt frowned and glanced down - 75 mph! He took a deep breath and very deliberately looked back up to the road ahead. He gripped the wheel as the flyover swept left in a gentle arc, and the G-forces pushed him slightly right. He quickly looked around, then glanced down at the spedo again as he merged onto northbound San Diego Freeway - still 75. The car felt OK on that long curve, and surprisingly Milt felt OK too. He was doing 20 over the limit, and he felt OK. Better than OK, it felt good, it felt... fun! Milt shook his head and self-consciously tried to wipe the smile off his face, and concentrated on the road ahead, and his mirrors, for any hint of red and blue flashing lights.

He thundered on for another couple of minutes, then instinctively slowed as he passed the Los Angeles National Cemetary. Row after row of white markers, arranged with appropriate military precision, cast long dark shadows at this early hour, shadows that seemed to reach out to him, and he couldn't look away. Good friends were buried there, every one of them taken too soon, and he considered pulling in. He glanced around again quickly, and down at his gauges. Back to 54 mph! He frowned hard at the spedo, then looked out over the expanse of green lawn and white markers. Some of those names were carved nearly a hundred years ago, and some much more recently. Many of them never even got the chance to grow up, let alone grow old. Given a second chance, how many of them would continue to coast on into the future? And how many would choose to live a little more?

The shadows no longer seemed to be reaching for him, they seemed to be pointing down the highway, pushing him onward. His eyes narrowed, his jaw set, and a smile turned up one corner of his mouth. He raised a hand in salute and shouted "Sorry fellas, today's not the day!"

Then he downshifted to third, stepped on the gas, and roared off again with the slowly rising sun on his shoulder.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The old blue Vette was doing well over 75 as Milt continued North, now having to watch for the occasional law-abiding citizen traveling closer to the speed limit. He didn't slow one bit for the long S-shaped exit onto the Ventura Freeway, in fact he opened up a little more once he had all those empty Westbound lanes to play with. The minutes and the miles flew by, and the years seemed to melt away on the passing breeze that gradually approached, then surpassed 100 mph. The sun was now fully above the horizon and almost directly behind him, so he couldn't see a thing in his mirrors. He concentrated on the road ahead, and on safely avoiding any other early morning travelers.

Encino, Sepulveda, Tarzana, Woodland Hills, they all flew by in a matter of minutes. The big V8 was in full song, the spedo wound way around into the triple digits. Topanga flashed by in an instant, and he barely noticed. The rush of the wind, the sun on his shoulders, the roar of the Vette, the openness, the freedom, the energy... he hadn't felt like this in a long time. He was alive and alert and in control. "Ha!" he yelled out to the McCormick of a few hours ago, "Where's your double nickle now, huh? How d'ya like _DOUBLE _the double nickle?" He swerved around a slower car without lifting his right foot at all, "Ha! That 'fuddy-duddy' enough for ya?"

He was about to throw back his head and laugh out loud at the exhilaration, the freedom, the speed, the... the... other car beside him?

Milt's heart nearly skipped a beat, his first thought was dread... _Busted? _So focused on the road ahead and blinded by the sunrise behind, he never noticed it pull up, and must have somehow totally missed the siren and lights. He quickly glanced left, eyes wide with fear, then even wider with confusion and surprise.

The man with the amused grin to his left was no cop. And that was certainly no police car. Milt smiled nervously, as relief washed the dread from his heart, and he glanced over again. Just who he was, Milt had no idea. And what he was up to at this hour of the day... he glanced down at the spedo... and doing _THIS _kind of speed! Just who did this joker think he was anyway! Milt pointed a finger and was about to yell "Slow down you maniac!". But he caught himself, took a breath, glanced once more at his own spedo, and settled uncomfortably, and more than a little self-consciously, back into his seat. He glanced left once more out of the corner of his eye, gripped the wheel, and tried to concentrate on the road.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

The driver of the black, mid-1960's Corvette Stingray convertible, also doing triple digits down the Ventura Freeway, seemed much less startled by the chance encounter. His broad shoulders and thick muscled arms seemed relaxed guiding a ton-and-a-half of steel and fiberglass down the highway at near-aircraft speeds. He was not as tall as Milt, so his close-cropped, thick hair was hardly disturbed by the breeze passing over top of the windshield. And his smile seemed somehow more than a smile, almost as if he was struggling to keep a straight face in the presence of the older speedster.

The black Vette surged ahead, then slowed to match Milt's speed. "You gotta be kidding me!" he thought to himself. He looked left again, and something about the black Vette's driver held his gaze. The smile and the look in his eye... confident but not arrogant, adventurous but not reckless, challenging and respectful at the same time. The black Vette surged ahead again, then a third time. Milt smiled and shook his head, "I may be crazy", he thought to himself, "but I'm not insane".

He signaled right and began to move over and slow for the Las Virgenes exit. Surprisingly, the black Vette also slowed and tucked in behind. "What the heck is he up to?" Milt wondered. He was about to hit the brakes for the red light at the end of the exit ramp, but he glanced at the black car on his bumper, and the smiling face in the rear view mirror, smiled himself, and muttered "I may not be insane, but I'm still crazy."

He downshifted, stomped the gas, and spun the wheel hard left. Tires squealed and the Vette lurched unsteadily through the intersection, Milt fighting to maintain balance between oversteer and understeer. He wobbled left and right several times, and threw up a small cloud of dust from the shoulder. But he soon regained control and in moments he was roaring south on Las Virgenes, flat out, with the black Vette right behind.

The black Vette pulled out to pass, but Milt poured on the speed, and they were neck and neck for several seconds. Milt realized too late that the black Vette would have the inside line for the upcoming curve, and that he himself would not have anywhere near enough road to work with, not at this speed. He braked as they entered the curve, but the wheels momentarily locked throwing him into a slide that made him wish he'd packed a parachute. The blue Vette fishtailed a couple of times as Mr. Black shot past, but Milt soon regained control of his car, and his composure, and was back on the younger man's bumper in seconds.

Moments later Milt saw his chance, and overtook the black car, but was soon growling in determination (and grudging admiration) as the black Vette retook the lead. The two old cars roared down Malibu Canyon, with the lead changing at almost every one of the many twists, turns, and switchbacks. Neither man could hold the lead for more than a few moments.

For the first couple of minutes, Milt's heart was in his mouth, his nerves were on edge, his hands shook on the wheel, he missed shifts, and he was all over the road. But each time he lost the lead, it was less and less due to his own errors, and more due to the other man's skill. And each time he passed the black Vette to take the lead back, he did it with more precision, and it scared him less and less.

They rounded a slight curve and entered a tunnel, side by side. The combined roar of the two big V8s running flat out, was deafening in the confined space, and the overhead lights shook from the vibration. They exited the tunnel in a blast of fresh air and light, and might almost have been mistaken for a pair of low flying aircraft as they streaked past the Hughes Research campus and continued southward.

The T sign announced the upcoming intersection with the Pacific Coast Highway. Milt glanced over at Mr. Black, and once more met the younger man's smiling steady gaze. They were neck and neck, and neither man was about to back down. They were going so fast, so close, that Milt could almost have reached out and touched the other car's black paint, and the rush of air between the cars tugged at the brim of his ball cap. Then the traffic lights suddenly loomed ahead, and the concrete medians corralled them, and there was no turning back.

Yesterday and the argument with Mark seemed like decades ago. It felt like- no _HE _felt like 1964 again. No case files, no gavel, no retirement... no hesitation, no carbon buildup, no shame and nothing wasted. His mind's eye briefly saw the road as it had been back then - no lights and no traffic. Just like decades before, and just as if he'd done it yesterday, he hammered the brakes and threw the car into a slide. He skipped down to second gear and applied the throttle with precision that might have been practiced an hour earlier, instead of decades. He felt, heard, even smelled the black Vette beside him, more than he saw it, and he balanced traction and power as delicately as any professional race driver, to keep from swapping paint.

They roared through the corner side by side, a thin ribbon of pavement, and a wider margin of skill, separating the two men from disaster. And a moment later all that remained were crisscross black arcs on the road, and the smell of hot brakes and rubber, to give any clue to their passing.

Milt felt every pebble in the asphalt, every grain of sand blown up from the beach below, felt each tread block fighting for grip, and every cog and gear working in the car, as he exited the intersection at full power, and full drift, using every inch of road. And the black Vette was right there beside him.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

The sun's rays had to work a little harder to catch up to the two old Stingrays as they thundered Westward along the PCH towards Malibu. Everything else was left in the dust. The twin black and blue streaks could almost have been a single vehicle, they were so closely matched. They parted momentarily to flow around a couple of cars doing a third of their speed. Then again moments later, and again. The early morning commuter traffic was building more quickly on the PCH, than it had back in the Malibu hills, and within moments both men slowed and merged into the growing congestion.

It took a determined effort for Milt to relax his iron grip on the wheel, relax his shoulders, and begin to unwind from the unexpected flight of fancy. He glanced left again, and the black Vette's driver threw him a salute that hinted at a military background, and that revealed a missing pinky finger. Then a thumbs-up and a broad smile. Milt stared at him for several seconds, "judge mode" instinctively kicking in, trying to size him up, to guess what sort of life had produced a man like this, and what strange twist of fate had caused their paths to cross. Whoever or whatever he was, Milt came to the conclusion he must be one of the "good guys", and smiled and waved back. Then he pulled in front, slowed, and turned into the driveway of Gulls Way. The Black Vette slowed as well, but didn't follow. Milt threw him one last wave over his shoulder as the black wrought iron gates closed.

Milt coasted to a stop and took a deep breath. Wristwatch. Pulse. After all he'd been through, he couldn't hide the triumphant grin that spread across his face seconds later. He turned the radio on again, and was greeted by a bouncy melody

_Oh well, a touch of grey_

_Kind of suits you anyway_

_That was all I had to say _

_And it's all right_

_I will get by _

_I will get by _

_I will get by _

_I will survive_

Milt threw back his head and laughed, as he slid the Vette into first and idled up the driveway towards the house. Still smiling, he studied the gatehouse windows carefully as he passed... nothing. Good! He felt like a million bucks, like a new man, and the last thing he wanted right now was an awkward explanation, with McCormick throwing more verbal darts at him. Sure they would come eventually, it was a cornerstone of their strange relationship, and Milt felt like he could fend off a million of them. But not now... not this morning.

As the rumble from the idling V8 crept past, a shadow moved in an upstairs window of the gatehouse. A curtain fluttered. A second smile flashed in the early morning sunshine. And dark curly hair bobbed slightly as a head nodded in approval. But no one heard the quiet voice, tinged with admiration, whisper "Ride on Kemosabe. Ride on..."


End file.
